


In his Charge

by PedanticDictionary, Sanrodri



Category: Drarry - Fandom, HPDM - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 01:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4416548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PedanticDictionary/pseuds/PedanticDictionary, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanrodri/pseuds/Sanrodri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy is Harry's charge. Takes place over a long period of time. AU. Post Hogwarts. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1

Harry sighed and leaned back in his chair. He wasn’t even technically an Auror yet, and already the head of the department had given him a case.

Harry Potter had spent the last six months after the war had ended at the Auror Academy. He hadn’t been required to finish his 7th year at Hogwarts due to the whole Savior of the Wizarding World thing (he cringed at the title), and so was able to avoid the messy business of exams. However, he had still needed formal training, since, unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to defeat everyone with Expelliarmus. Luckily, his time at the academy had been enjoyable, and he was scheduled to graduate soon, but before he could, Ministry red tape had finally been cleared, and many of the people being held at Azkaban for war crimes were at last given proper trials. One of those people was, of course, Draco Malfoy.

Harry had thought about Malfoy’s case obsessively as soon as he read about it in the papers, and quickly decided that even though Malfoy was a terrible person and an annoying prat, he wasn’t evil and he didn’t deserve to rot in Azkaban.

After all, he hadn’t killed Dumbledore, he had saved Harry at Malfoy Manor, his mother had saved Harry in the Forbidden Forest, and Malfoy had called out his name when he thought Harry dead…a memory which still puzzled the Gryffindor.

And so, Harry attended the git’s trial and testified in his favor, much to everyone’s surprise. Harry’s testimonies, plus Malfoy’s memories that had been placed in a Pensieve, showed that the boy’s dark mark had been forced on him, and that his actions had all been driven by fear. Thus, the Wizengamot let Draco Malfoy go free. However, plenty of testimonies that highlighted Malfoy’s unsavory deeds (poisoned necklaces and such) made the Wizengamot wary. In the end, they fined the Malfoy family heavily (though it was nothing to the money Harry knew they had to have hidden somewhere), and sentenced Draco Malfoy to an entire year of community service, 10 years of attending ministry balls where he would be expected to donate handsomely, six months without his wand, six months of house arrest, a year's confinement to Britain, and lastly, the charge of an Auror, who would act as a monitor and case manager. Because Harry had spoken out in Malfoy’s favor, he was assigned the case.

He ran a hand through his hair and looked around the small office that he had been assigned, wondering where Ron was and if he’d see his absent partner-to-be before it was time to meet with Malfoy. A quick glance at the parchment in front of him told him that he only had ten more minutes before he would have to start a job that he technically wouldn’t be qualified for until Wednesday. _Great._

“Potter,” came a monotone voice from the door. Harry knew who it was before even lifting his head to see the boy, _man now, I guess,_ who had once paralyzed him, broken his nose, and flung an invisibility cloak over him. Maybe Malfoy didn’t deserve life in Azkaban, but the time he had spent there had certainly been warranted.

“Malfoy. You’re early.”

“Not by choice, I assure you.”

Another auror, one who had already graduated, now walked through the doorway. He made his way to Harry and handed him a file that Harry assumed had all the details of Malfoy’s case inside. _Great. More paperwork._ The man then thanked Harry for his service to the Wizarding World (of course) and turned an icy look toward Malfoy that the blond easily ignored.

“Mr. Malfoy,” the Auror began. “I shall now leave you in the very capable hands of Auror Potter. After your meeting, you will floo directly to the predetermined location and remain there for the amount of time decided upon by the Honourable Judge Diggins. I will give your wand to Auror Potter and he will hold it for the aforementioned amount of time unless you violate your parole, in which case, he will destroy it and escort you to Azkaban.”

The Auror smirked, gave Harry a small but obviously very gracious bow, glared one last time at Malfoy, and then left the room.

Harry sighed loudly.

“Why he couldn’t have just said to go home, stay there, and get your wand back in six months…” Harry shook his head and looked at Malfoy, who wore a mask of aloof boredom. “Well, go ahead and sit, then.”

As the blond obeyed, Harry took the familiar wand in his hand and locked it in his top drawer, making sure to ward it carefully. Then he opened the file Auror Douchebag had given him.

He sighed again. Nothing new. Just mindless paperwork. He looked at Malfoy again, ready to begin.

“Right. So here’s how it works. You floo here every day at noon until Wednesday-” _when I graduate_ “-and tell me about your days. Then, on Friday, you take Veritaserum and I find out if you lied to me at any point. Lies get you into Azkaban. So don’t. Of course, if I abuse my power and ask you unrelated questions, I will be punished, blah blah.” He rolled his eyes. He didn’t care to know more about the ferret than he already did anyway. “Then, we will meet once a week, and you will take Veritaserum once a month for a year. After that we will meet once a month and you will take the potion every other month for two years.” He retrieved a sheet of parchment from a shelf behind him and slid it across the desk to his charge. “This is a list of potions and medications that you can’t take on days when you must tell the truth and,” he swiveled to another shelf, “this is a form saying that we can administer the potion and do random blood tests to make sure you aren’t taking anything that will cancel or alter its effects.”

Draco Malfoy sat straight as a board.

“And if I don’t sign that?”

Harry shrugged.

“Azkaban.”

Malfoy grimaced.

“You must be enjoying this, Potter.”

“Not really. I hate paperwork. So are you going to sig- Oh! Right, I almost forgot. I have to visit the Manor once a month and sweep it for illegal objects or smuggled wands. So don’t be stupid.”

The blond signed the paper, though reluctantly, and looked toward the door.

“Do I…?”

“Nope. Tell me about your day, Malfoy.” He grinned and leaned back in his chair, placing his canvas shoes up on the desk. The blond’s mouth twitched unpleasantly. “What?”

“Nothing,” Malfoy said. “My day was- “

“We are going to be at this a long time. You have to be honest around me and… well, as comfortable as you can be, if this is going to work.” Harry recalled his training. Charges must be able to confide in yadda yadda yadda.

“It’s nothing, I assure you.”

Harry sighed.

“Just… I dunno. Pretend I’m back at Hogwarts.”

“No, thank you.”

“What if I call you a prick, Malfoy? Or maybe a stupid, little, bouncing _ferret._ ”

The blond’s eyes flashed and Harry knew he had won. It was too easy.

“Fine, _scarhead._ ” Malfoy said with a bite. “Your dirty, disgusting, whatever those are, are on an expensive, beautifully crafted, mahogany desk. Your actions not only speak volumes of your obviously lacking upbringing, but they are completely unprofessional.”

Harry blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that. Had Malfoy cared about that sort of thing at Hogwarts? He couldn’t remember, but he lowered his legs just the same.

“Right then. Well… sorry.” He had to keep his charges comfortable. “So. Your day?”

Malfoy shrugged.

“Oh, you know, opened my hate mail, got a locator spell forced on me by that robot who brought me here, and then there was _you.”_ Harry expected a sneer, but instead, Malfoy winced, before steeling himself once more. “Why did you save me from Azkaban, Potter?”

Now it was Harry’s turn to shrug.

“Why did you save me from Voldemort? Why did you show concern when you thought I was dead? Why did your mother save me in the Forbidden Forest?” The blond didn’t reply, so Harry was forced to move on to the list of questions protocol made him ask. “Have you done anything illegal since you left Azkaban?”

“Not outside of my own head.”

He sighed.

“If you say stuff like that I have to report it.”

“I thought I was supposed to be myself,” Malfoy snapped.

“Fine. Whatever. Are you in touch with any current Death Eaters, former Death Eaters, or-” he snorted “- _future_ ones?” The questionnaire must have been old…

“No.”

“Are you on any muggle drugs?”

“No.” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “All I’ve done since I left Azkaban is sit in the Manor. So can I _go?”_

The door opened.

“You sure as bloody hell can’t, Malfoy.” Ron had shown up. “Now shut up and answer my partner’s questions.”

“I don’t answer to you, _Weasel_ ,”Draco spat, as Harry tried, and failed, to suppress a long, tired sigh.

“You watch your tongue, Malfoy, or I’ll send you back to Azkaban faster than you can beg mummy for help.”

Ron, obviously, was one of the many people who believed Malfoy should have spent at least another six months imprisoned.

Before the blond could retaliate, Harry spoke.

“Ron, can you please leave?” Ron scowled. “ _Or_ at least sit silently and wait until my meeting is over?”

The redhead huffed, but sat behind his desk opposite Harry’s and, thankfully, began to pull out paperwork. Harry turned toward Malfoy.

“Right. So. Only one more question and you can go.” Malfoy nodded. “Do you harbor anyone ill will? Or… I guess, is there anyone that you want to hurt, kill, that stuff?”

“Yes,” said Draco Malfoy.

 Harry frowned and Ron lifted his head smugly.

“And who would that be exactly?”

“My father.”

* * *

 

The only thing keeping Draco from visibly shaking was his last shred of dignity. His fury - and, shamefully, his fear - threatened to make him break out into tremors. After his admission had silenced the Aurors’ office, it was all he could do not to lose his composure. Potter, at least, had the good sense to keep his mouth shut, but Weasley spluttered violently, nearly falling out of his chair.

“And why do you want to hurt your father?” Potter finally managed to choke out, seemingly unable to decide whether it would be easier to stare at his parchment or at Draco.

“Why do you think?” the blond snapped. He took a breath to try to calm himself before he continued. “It’s his fault I’m in this situation. Everything that’s happened to me in the past two years has been his fault, and probably more. I want to take everything he’s put me through and give it back to him double. Even if he were out of Azkaban, I couldn’t, though.” Draco sighed in frustration. “I’d probably piss myself if I so much as thought about it in his presence.”

“So, would you say that the likelihood of your acting on these urges is low, very low, or practically nonexistent?” Potter asked, apparently skipping over higher likelihood options.

“Somewhere between very low and practically nonexistent,” Draco muttered, looking around the office as Potter made a few scratches on the parchment. It really was obvious the two hadn’t been assigned to it long enough to settle in; the desks still looked perfectly polished, and there were no candy wrappers anywhere. “Is that the last of your questions?” Potter took a moment to flip through a couple of other pieces of parchment before answering.

“That does appear to be the last of them, yes,” the brunette finally determined. “I’ll escort you to the floo.” Draco rolled his eyes and got up to follow Potter to the floo. It really was ridiculous, having to be escorted everywhere, but he kept his expression as even as he possibly could. When they emerged from the maze of offices and cubicles and hallways and lifts to the main lobby, Potter turned them towards the nearest unoccupied fireplace. He offered up a pouch of Ministry-grade floo powder that was going to leave him with a slightly grimy residue when he popped out into one of the many fireplaces of Malfoy Manor. “Remember, tomorrow, noon, all that. An Auror will meet you outside the floo to escort you to my office.”

“Right,” Draco muttered, grabbing as small a handful of the gritty grey powder as he thought he could get away with and stepping into the fireplace. He felt far more eyes watching him as he stepped into the fireplace than there should conceivably have been, but instead of curling in on himself and disappearing like he wanted to, he stood tall. “Malfoy Manor!” he pronounced, and threw the floo powder down towards his feet. He was engulfed in green flames, and when he tumbled out of the fireplace in the main hall of his family home, he could feel a thin layer of grime coating his skin and clothes. Draco shuddered, and hurried to his rooms so he could clean himself off and change into something not covered in floo grime.

When he was finally in the shower, the water carrying away all traces of grime from his skin and hair, Draco let his mind wander. It wandered so far, in fact, that when he stepped out of the spray, he absently reached for his wand to summon a towel and turn off the water. It took him a good minute and a half of cursing to remember that his wand was locked in a drawer in Potter’s office, and would be for the next six months. He cursed again, and leaned back into the spray to manually turn the knobs and stop the flow of water. The towel, of course, was hanging on a rack near the sink, and he grabbed it far more roughly than he really needed to, causing it to flop over onto his head. With a sigh, the blond used the opportunity to ruffle his hair dry.

It was going to be a long six months without magic. A very long, very irksome six months. At least he would get to infuriate Potter on a regular basis. What was he supposed to do stuck in the Manor all that time, though? Take up knitting? Go through the Manor’s entire library? Maybe he should get one of the house elves to get some yarn and a few muggle books on knitting…


	2. A Taste of Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 6 months have passed and Draco gets his wand and limited freedom back.

“I don’t know how muggles do it!” Potter and Weasley’s office was finally looking settled into, with candy wrappers stuffed between books and files on shelves and occasionally littering the floor. Draco couldn’t help stepping on a few as he paced around the limited floor space, trying to walk away his frustration. “It’s infuriating! Nothing is made to be done without magic! All the books and ingredients and clothes on the top shelves need magic to get used!” He heard Weasley stifle a laugh, and tried very hard to resist the urge to say anything. The Veritaserum was still in full effect, and anything he said would be truthful.

“A ladder would work, too,” Potter pointed out, obviously straining to keep a straight face. “Muggles have adapted. They’ve never had it, so the workarounds seem natural to them.”

“How long has it been? I want to leave,” Draco snapped, to avoid saying anything he couldn’t take back.

“You’ve only got a few more minutes before it wears off,” Potter replied as calmly as he could manage, checking his muggle watch to make sure. “Besides, you’re forgetting what today is.”

“I don’t care what today is!” the blond spit back, running his hands through his hair. Potter was smirking, though. “That expression doesn’t suit your face. You look juvenile and stupid.”

“I’ll let that slide for now,” the brunette said as he took his wand off of his desk. “It’s been six months. You get your wand back today. And you can go places other than Malfoy Manor and here.” Draco could practically feel his jaw hit the floor as Potter undid the wards on his desk drawer. When the brunette opened the drawer and handed Draco a wand – his wand, he knew, at least theoretically – it was all the blond could do not to stare at it in amazement. “You don’t have to wonder how muggles do it anymore. You’ve got your wand back, and you can go get more yarn for yourself.”

“I only picked up knitting because I was bored!” Draco retorted, his face flushing. “At least I don’t wear _muggle_ clothes everywhere…” He grabbed his grey knitted scarf off of the chair he’d flung it onto. “Can I go now? I need more yarn. I ran out.” Weasley had the grace not to snort that time, and Potter checked his muggle watch again.

“You should be fine by the time you get to the floo,” the brunette confirmed. “I trust you know the way by now?” Draco nodded and stormed out of the office, grumbling to himself as he wrapped the scarf around his neck.

“Stupid Potter and his stupid smirk and his stupid _Weasley_ ,” the blond muttered as he turned corner after corner on his way to the floo. He knew exactly where he wanted to go, though he was a bit nervous to go out in public after having been stuck inside – either in Azkaban or in the Manor – for so long. He had to do it now, or he’d never be able to face leaving the Manor again. When he reached the floo, he retrieved a half-full pouch of floo powder from one of the many pockets of his robes, stepped into an empty fireplace, and tossed a handful of the dust at his feet as he proclaimed, “Diagon Alley!”

He wound up in Flourish and Blotts, and the shop he wanted was unfortunately at the other end of the alley. He cursed under his breath as he cast a few spells to clean off the ash from the uncleaned fireplace. As soon as he emerged from the small back room that held the floo, a hush fell over the small bookstore. Draco realized he must have looked even paler than they were expecting, having been indoors for most of a year. Assuming his most unfriendly scowl, he straightened his back and swept out of the tiny book shop, thankful that he was at least imposing enough for the patrons to part in order to let him pass. He cloaked himself in his disdain for them, hoping it would hide the fear in his eyes and his heart.

Coming to Diagon Alley had definitely been a mistake. Photographers and journalists were already pressing close to the entrance of the bookstore when he emerged, shouting questions and taking picture after picture after picture until Draco’s cloak of disdain broke down completely. He shoved through them unceremoniously and practically sprinted down the street towards the tiny magical yarn shop the house elves had discovered early in his knitting career.

The store didn’t have a floo of its own, or much space inside for customers, but its yarn was all enchanted or magical in some way. Some had been charmed to always be warm, some was made from the hair of magical creatures (the yarn made from centaurs’ tails was surprisingly soft), some had even been cursed with Merlin-knows-what. It was the first time Draco had been in the shop himself, and though his house elves had told the proprietor it had been him they’d been buying for, the young woman behind the counter squeaked when he came barreling through the door.

“I’m so sorry,” Draco sputtered as he tried to catch his breath. “The-the press, they…” He gestured helplessly to the window, where the throng of journalists and photographers and gawkers were already starting to press close to the glass.

“The glass is charmed to keep them out,” the girl behind the counter replied in a thick Scottish burr, calming down as she spoke. “Door too. The curtains’re sheer, but I charmed the yarn so that nobody outside can see through ‘em. D’ye want me to close them?” Draco nodded, still gulping air, and took a good look at the girl as she produced and waved her wand. She was plain, her brown hair held back so tightly it made her round face look even rounder. Her eyes were bright and intelligent, though, and her long eyelashes helped make her face friendlier.

“Thank you,” the blond said as the curtains dropped closed over the windows. The door was solid, so the throng grumbled and dissipated. He was about to say something in explanation when the girl behind the counter smiled and started to speak.

“Happy t’help. Yer house elves’ve been in here a lot lately, since you couldn’t come yerself.” She bent under the counter and produced a bag full of yarn. “I picked these out special for you – thought y’might want to try a few of them, seein’ what the elves get you.”

“Y-you’re not afraid of me?” Draco stammered, staring at the girl. “You don’t think I’m some bloody Death Eater, come to destroy everything?” The girl shrugged.

“I read the transcripts from th’ trial,” she said, beckoning him over to look through the yarn she’d picked out. He picked up a skein, and her smile widened into a grin. “Tha’s a nice one, that. Centaur tail, wi’ a bit o’ lamb’s wool mixed in. Charmed like my curtains – put it over a window, it’ll keep pryin’ eyes from seein’ in. Anyway, from wha’ I read, you were just scared, not evil. An’ besides, you’re the best customer I’ve ‘ad in ages. It’d be stupid o’ me t’hate you on principle like that. Th’ name’s Margie. I own th’ place, bu’ my sister sometimes sits the counter. If I’m not here, but you want to see something I picked out, ask ‘er for my bag.”

They talked for a while, going through the bag of yarn to see what there was. A few other customers came in, so Draco wound up moving the bag to an empty table near the back to sift through it. Margie always came back to tell him about the yarns he was looking at when she’d finished helping the other customers, and he wound up buying several skeins of the first one he’d picked up, so he could make some curtains to use at the Manor. The ones he got were in a nice, rich green, so they would match the décor. He thanked Margie profusely for her help, thoroughly surprised by her kindness, and left to find the nearest floo.

The photographers and journalists were still outside. They had retreated to the other side of the street, but as soon as Drago emerged, they were back on him in a flash, trapping him against the window of the yarn shop. He vaguely heard someone shout the incantation to call for Aurors, and heard the _pop_ of the spell going off. Within moments, the Aurors arrived and began to clear away the throng, and the first one through to Draco was none other than Harry Potter.

* * *

 

Harry was furious. Two hours of freedom and already he had gotten a call about Draco Malfoy. What the fuck was that idiot thinking? He grabbed Ron, Auror Hintze, and Auror Jenkins before apparating to Diagon Alley. Thank god for auror privileges.

What he saw when he got there made him even angrier… but not at Malfoy.

“HEY!” he roared at the parasites in front of him, practically climbing over each other to get the latest scoop. Nobody payed him any attention. “For Merlin’s sake... Weasley, Hintze, start getting names and giving out citations. Jenkins, make sure the perimeter is secured and none of these idiots get away without paying a hefty fine.”

He got a running start and then barreled through the crowd, ignoring angry shouts and surprised yelps. _Filthy paparazzi scum._

One man turned toward him angrily and refused to move out of the way.

“Who do you think you are, muggle idiot?”

Harry stunned him and kept pushing through. If he engaged these types of people, he would revert to his Hogwarts days, and punching a civilian in the face for no _good legal reason_ was the fastest way to get suspended. He pushed through further until he finally saw his charge. Draco Malfoy was leaning against the window of a shop, sniveling and clutching an alarmingly large bag of yarn to his chest. It would have been pathetic and maybe even a little funny if not for the crowd behind Harry and the idiot pinning Malfoy to the window.

“Come on, Malfoy! Tell us! How was Azkaban? Is it true you Imperiused Potter to testify for you?!” The blond shut his eyes tightly and clutched his bag tighter, causing a ball of yarn to fall to the ground. “And why are you buying yarn? Trying to create a good little boy façade?” The reporter finished the sentence by smacking the glass with his hand and making Malfoy jump. That was all Harry needed to lose what little composure he had left. He grabbed the reporter’s hair from behind, pulled, swung him around, and threw him into the unsuspecting crowd. He had _wanted_ to bash his head into the window behind Malfoy, but even angry Harry had his limits. Then he raised his wand into the air and without saying a word, created a shower of red sparks that rained down on the crowd, robbing them of their ability to control their legs. Instantly, everyone fell to the floor and Harry smirked. _Let them writhe all over each other like the worms that they are._

A sob from behind him reminded him of why he was there and he quickly grabbed the fallen ball of yarn, grabbed Malfoy, and turned on the spot, trying his best to think about his flat.

Once home, he let go of Malfoy, and carefully took the bag from him before looking him over thoroughly. No bruises or cuts on his right arm. His left arm was clear other than the already fading Dark Mark. Face, neck, head – all clear. No blood on his clothing. He sighed. His charge was okay. Shaken up, but okay.

“Hey. Malfoy. You’re okay. You’re safe, and, uh…” He looked over at the bag on the coffee table. “Your yarn is safe, too.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Malfoy choked out. “I promise. I’ll take Veritaserum again. I’ll give you my memories. I didn’t do anything.” The man sobbed and looked at Harry desperately. It was a look that he hadn’t seen since the blond’s trial, enough to break anyone’s heart.

He grabbed Malfoy’s shoulders gently.

“Hey, hey, shh. It’s ok. You’re not in trouble, alright? In fact, everyone else is. You’re not. Understand? You’re ok.” Malfoy nodded slowly and Harry led him to the sofa before handing him his bag of yarn. Then he summoned a pair of knitting needles that Hermione kept in his guest bedroom for when she came over to listen to Quidditch matches with Ron. “There you go. Make whatever you want, ok? I’ll er… make some tea.”

He walked to kitchen and put a kettle on the stove. He was still angry. What the fuck had he been _thinking_ , letting Malfoy go out like that alone his first day?! He should have escorted him. He could have gotten killed. Some angry idiot could have attacked him just for having the mark. It had only been a year since the war… People were still tense around anyone who even looked like they might have been on Voldemort’s side.

“Potter?”

He jumped and turned.

“Uh…yeah?”

“You were gripping the edge of your counter like you wanted to kill it. Also…the water is boiling.”

It was true. The kettle was screeching and Harry hadn’t even noticed. He cursed and removed it from the stove with a wave of his wand.

“You like ginger?”

Malfoy shrugged.

“You must love seeing me like this.” He was still crying. “The thing is, no matter how much I hate looking weak, I can’t stop… and I hate you for that.”

Harry bit the inside of his lip. He understood perfectly because if the roles were reversed and _he_  were the one who had just been saved by Malfoy, of all people… and then if he were crying… But he needed to keep this professional.

“Well… as my charge, I want you to feel comfortable around me, so… Er. Thank you for opening up?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes.

“Shut up, Potter. I’m in your flat, you made me bloody tea. Stop acting like a professional. You’ve never been good at it.” Tears rolled down his cheeks, but he kept his head high. _He must be calming down if he can stand like that._

“So… Did you say you like ginger?”

Malfoy sniffed and went back to the living room. Harry followed a couple of minutes later with two cups of tea.

The blond drank silently, staring at the untouched needles next to him as if they offended him in some way. As for Harry, he just felt awkward. He hadn’t taken Malfoy to the Manor because he didn’t want to alarm his mother, but having his charge in his home felt… _wrong._

They sat in silence until both had finished their tea. Malfoy, who had finally stopped crying, but was still red-faced and puffy-eyed, grabbed his things and walked toward the floo.

“Thank you, Potter, for your services today,” he said in a way that sounded forced.

“You’re my charge.”

“Of course. Good bye. Thank you for the tea, and… next time you offer knitting needles to someone, make sure they haven’t been chewed on.”

And with that, he stepped into the floo and shouted “Malfoy Manor!”, leaving Harry to glare at an empty fireplace.

_Bloody critical arse._


End file.
